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“And spoil the pair? No, indeed!”

“Mother always chucked ’em, an’ father’d buy new ones till I skipped from home. Lin kind o’ mends ’em.”

“Does he?” said Jessamine, softly. And she looked at the photograph.

“Yes. What made you write him for to let me come and bring my stockin’s and things?”

“Don’t you see, Billy, there is so little work at this station that I’d be looking out of the window all day just the pitiful way you do?”

“Oh!” Billy pondered. “And so I said to Lin,” he continued, “why didn’t he send down his own clothes, too, an’ let you fix ’em all. And Honey Wiggin laughed right in his coffee-cup so it all sploshed out. And the cook he asked me if mother used to mend Lin’s clothes. But I guess she chucked ’em like she always did father’s and mine. I was with father, you know, when mother was married to Lin that time.” He paused again, while his thoughts and fears struggled. “But Lin says I needn’t ever go back,” he went on, reasoning and confiding to her. “Lin don’t like mother any more, I guess.” His pondering grew still deeper, and he looked at Jessamine for some while. Then his face wakened with a new theory. “Don’t Lin like you any more?” he inquired.

“Oh,” cried Jessamine, crimsoning, “yes! Why, he sent you to me!”

“Well, he got hot in camp when I said that about sending his clothes to you. He quit supper pretty soon, and went away off a walking. And that’s another time they said I was too young. But Lin don’t come to see you any more.”

“Why, I hope he loves me,” murmured Jessamine. “Always.”

“Well, I hope so too,” said Billy, earnestly. “For I like you. When I seen him show you our cabin on Box Elder, and the room he had fixed for you, I was glad you were coming to be my mother. Mother used to be awful. I wouldn’t ‘a’ minded her licking me if she’d done other things. Ah, pshaw! I wasn’t going to stand that.” Billy now came close to Jessamine. “I do wish you would come and live with me and Lin,” said he. “Lin’s awful nice.”

“Don’t I know it?” said Jessamine, tenderly.

“Cause I heard you say you were going to marry him,” went on Billy. “And I seen him kiss you and you let him that time we went away when you found out about mother. And you’re not mad, and he’s not, and nothing happens at all, all the same! Won’t you tell me, please?”

Jessamine’s eyes were glistening, and she took him in her lap. She was not going to tell him that he was too young this time. But whatever things she had shaped to say to the boy were never said.

Through the noise of the gale came the steadier sound of the train, and the girl rose quickly to preside over her ticket-office and duties behind the railing in the front room of the station. The boy ran to the window to watch the great event of Separ’s day. The locomotive loomed out from the yellow clots of drift, paused at the water-tank, and then with steam and humming came slowly on by the platform. Slowly its long dust-choked train emerged trundling behind it, and ponderously halted. There was no one to go. No one came to buy a ticket of Jessamine. The conductor looked in on business, but she had no telegraphic orders for him. The express agent jumped off and looked in for pleasure. He received his daily smile and nod of friendly discouragement. Then the light bundle of mail was flung inside the door. Separ had no mail to go out. As she was picking up the letters young Billy passed her like a shadow, and fled out. Two passengers had descended from the train, a man and a large woman. His clothes were loose and careless upon him. He held valises, and stood uncertainly looking about him in the storm. Her firm, heavy body was closely dressed. In her hat was a large, handsome feather. Along between the several cars brakemen leaned out, watched her, and grinned to each other. But her big, hard-shining blue eyes were fixed curiously upon the station where Jessamine was.